Forging Chaos (Forging #3)

23. Odin

CHAPTER 23

ODIN

Mom

Have dinner with your father and me…

I leave Mom’s text unread all day Friday while my cousin drives me to and from physical therapy. I also leave it unread while I shower for the first time without a boot on my leg. I mean…obviously, I don’t take my phone in the shower. But the whole thing is a huge process I really shouldn’t have tackled alone, and I’m not sure why I don’t respond to my mom or call on any of my roommate-relatives to help me out.

Instead, I bite back moans of pain as I balance my ass on the tile and scrub my itchy-ass leg. I try not to look at the scar and bruising at the incision. I try not to think about what Thora might think if she saw me now, hobbled like an injured bird trying to scour lint from between my toes.

Thora.

Our night together was incredibly intense, and I know it scared her. She couldn’t get out of here fast enough afterward. I don’t know what the hell to do about her. She’s leaving at the end of the summer. I know that. And yet, she’s the best thing in my world right now .

I can’t believe I went into that encounter thinking it would be terrible, I couldn’t perform the way I usually do, do the things I typically do with women. Nothing about Thora is usual or typical.

I have no idea where she got the idea to play with my ass while she had my dick in her mouth, but I was a nanosecond away from exploding down her throat before I used some sort of ninja maneuver to flip us both over, cast be damned.

Post shower, once I have my cast back on, I’m about to face the music and read my mom’s text, but the phone rings instead, and it’s my dad. “Gah,” I say by way of greeting.

“Never ignore your mother, Odin. It worries her, and then she pesters me about it.” His tone is pretty neutral, so maybe this won’t be as painful as I feared. No lectures. No litany of questions about my future.

“I was about to text her back,” I tell him, grunting as I tug a pair of shorts up and over the cast. It’s a new boot with some wedge in the heel, but I’m still only allowed to take it off to shower, and I’ve got two more weeks with the damn scooter.

“Yes, well, you waited too long. I’ll be at the apartment in five minutes. I’ll be double-parked, so start heading outside now.” I don’t have time to react to this news before he adds, “Are you good on the stairs yet? Should I park?”

I debate my response for too long because Dad hums, and I know he will park and offer to carry me. I am tall and coordinated enough to monkey-swing my way down the stairwell with my arms pressed to either wall, but I still need someone to carry my scooter down. I haven’t yet gotten to the point where I want to throw it down the stairs and hope for the best.

By the time I get a shirt on and find my deodorant in Gunnar’s bathroom—he’s always stealing my shit, and I’m not going to miss that when I move out—Dad is in the doorway giving the apartment a condescending scowl. “Dad,” I say, nodding my head in his direction. I roll over to him as he lets his face melt into a more familiar grin, and he opens his huge arms to wrap me in a hug. Honestly, I do feel better once I’m all wrapped up in a Tyrion Stag embrace. He’s always been a good hugger.

“Lead the way, O-man. What should I do?” I demonstrate my hands-on-the-wall-and-swing-down-the-stairs technique, and he follows it with my knee roller. He blocked a hydrant with his ancient gold minivan, so I do my best to hurry into the passenger seat as if anyone would give hockey star Ty Stag a parking ticket. The man can, and has successfully, grinned his way out of everything.

Dad drives me to the house, pulling into the garage he recently redid and pointing at the ramp that has replaced the step into the kitchen. “You never know,” he explains. “Seemed like a good idea. You know, in case your mother becomes infirm.”

She hears this joke as we enter the house and whips him with a dish towel before pulling my face down so she can kiss my cheeks and ruffle my hair. “You had me so worried, Odin Theodore. Don’t do that again.” Holding me at arm’s length, still awkwardly bent down, Mom studies my eyes like she’s trying to look inside my head. “Go on and sit. I brought out the ottoman for you to rest your cast.”

I don’t bother to ask what inspired this private meal. I’ve been ignoring absolutely everyone but Thora, so I’m sure Mom has a notepad of prioritized to-do items to get my life back on track. The problem is, I don’t think the tracks have been built yet. Or someone lost the blueprints. Or something.

Dad produces a huge takeout bag full of Mediterranean food, and my mouth waters at the smell of the hummus, feta, and fresh parsley. As predicted, Mom pulls out a yellow legal pad .

“I’m just going to dive in if that’s okay,” she says, not referencing the food but assuming full-on lawyer/judge mode. I nod because there’s no stopping her once she starts questioning a witness. “I took the liberty of calling Brian. You remember your cousins’ agent? He was Uncle Hawk’s agent, too?—”

“I know who Brian is, Mom.”

She nods and takes a bite of cucumber. “Well, I told him you aren’t pursuing representation any time soon.” I silently swallow a mouth full of falafel and watch her cross AGENT off her list with a swift, precise pen stroke. “Now, you’ll need to sign some paperwork from your coach, whom I’ve convinced to hold off pestering you for another week while you sort things out with academics. But anyway…”

I stop listening as Mom reiterates that my scholarship requires me to stay on the roster for the team during my rehab. She talks about minimum grade point average and academic eligibility and ten thousand things I already knew. I tune her out and bury my fingers in my hair, tugging it to feel the sensation on my scalp.

My life has exploded, and I can’t even wallow. I have to do paperwork about it. When I open my eyes again, Dad has his hand pressed reassuringly over Mom’s pen, and they’re both staring at me.

“Hey,” Dad says. “Tell me something good that happened this week.” Mom nods and presses her lips together, setting the pen on the table.

I take a sip of my water and tell them about my presentation with Thora. “I think we aced it. Did I tell you she’s a Rhodes Scholar?”

Dad’s brows lift, and he nods, impressed. Mom grins. “This is the girl from the law clinic, right? She was so nice at the reading, although I thought you were coming along with her, sweetheart. I hope you didn’t stay home because of your leg. I could have—” Dad squeezes her shoulder, and Mom stops rambling.

I take a deep breath. “Thora wanted to go with Fern.” I hold my palms up. “I wanted them to have a nice night out.”

Mom hums appreciatively. “Fern leaves soon. After Commencement, right? I think Wyatt is flying home to support her. Isn’t that so sweet?”

Dad nods. “Very sweet, June-bug.”

We all eat quietly until Dad grabs the notepad and scans the list Mom scrawled down an entire page. He looks at me and folds his hands together on top of the list. “What’s one thing you can take care of this week, O?” He holds up a thick finger. “One thing.”

I scratch my chin. I haven’t shaved, but somehow, I suspect personal hygiene is not what Dad is talking about. I’m pretty sure I missed the window for the medical withdrawal, and I can’t stomach being in the football building right now. Not with the team all high on success, working out next year’s roster, and preparing for their own futures with the game. I’m sure the paperwork with Coach is important, but that feels as far off as going for a jog.

I think about Thora and what it means to her to finish a degree at all costs, let alone graduate school afterward. She mentioned how hard her mom has to work to support the three of them without a degree. My family is in a different place, financially, but it sort of feels like spitting in Thora’s face to piss away the credits I’ve earned so far. I rap my knuckles on the table and look at Dad. “I’ll call Meech and deal with my grades this semester. Maybe I’m not failing everything.”

Both my parents smile. Mom reaches for her pen to cross something off the list, but Dad shakes his head and squeezes her hand. He looks me in the eye and says, “One step at a time, kid.”

He’s right, of course. My entire life has been derailed to the point where a shower takes me longer than it used to take me to run a 5k. Mom and Dad have ideas about what I should do—that much is obvious—but I have to figure out the next steps on my own. I’m not sure they understand that my even wanting to do that decision-making is a huge step up from last week. If it were up to Mom, I’d already have a new strategic plan for my life with goals, sub-goals, and a timeline.

Instead, I tell them I’m proud of getting my dirty dishes to the sink when I finish my pita. Everything is different now, and I know I can’t stay in the apartment if I’m not an enrolled student. I know I can’t stay on the football team if I can’t play football anymore. I know all of that. But moving home isn’t something I can handle right now, either.

Dad shoves an entire falafel ball in his mouth and swallows it, turning to me. “Come on, kiddo. I’ll take you back to the Stag Lair.”

I roll my eyes. He and my uncles have been trying to name our apartment ever since Wes and Wyatt first moved in. I hoist myself up onto my scooter just as Mom shouts that we can’t forget more condoms for the safe and satisfied basket.